Dr. Worth melted conservatively. “You see, sir, I know his heart. He had a nervous breakdown two years ago which left its action impaired.” He loosened Endicott’s overcoat and the black pearl studs set in a semisoft shirt bosom. He listened for a moment, and then removed the stethoscope. “No trace,” he said. “He’s dead. Shall I button up the shirt front and the coat again?”
“It isn’t necessary, Doctor.”
The hall door opened abruptly. The homicide chief and the medical examiner came in, followed by a squad of detectives. Lieutenant Valcour was well acquainted with both officials. He introduced them to Dr. Worth and placed at their disposal such information as he had gained while waiting for them to arrive.
The department’s experts automatically began to function at once. A photographer was already arranging his apparatus to make pictures of the body from as many angles as its position in the cupboard would permit. A fingerprint man went about his duties along the lines laid down by established routine. The medical examiner and Dr. Worth gravitated naturally together and plunged into a discussion of Endicott’s medical history.
The homicide chief, a well-built, alert-looking man of fifty, by the name of Andrews, drew Lieutenant Valcour a little to one side.
“What do you really make of it, Valcour?” he said.
“Oh, it’s undoubtedly murder, Chief, but I doubt whether there’ll even be an indictment unless we get a lucky break, establish a definite motive, and get a confession.”
“I feel that way about it, too. Any signs of an entry having been forced?”
“I haven’t looked. I’ve been in here all the time, and my men just came.”